


sweet dreams & flying machines

by coffeesuperhero



Category: Cabin Pressure, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: And Then It Got Out of Hand, Gen, It All Started So Innocently, Kid Fic, Kid Martin Crieff, Martin Crieff wants to be an aeroplane, Martin Crieff's birthdays are not always the best, but sometimes they're pretty fantastic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-18
Updated: 2012-07-18
Packaged: 2017-11-10 05:24:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/462659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeesuperhero/pseuds/coffeesuperhero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is Martin Crieff's sixth birthday, and all he wants in the world is to be an aeroplane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sweet dreams & flying machines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amalia Kensington (amaliak01)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaliak01/gifts).



> This is for my Consulting Enabler, Lexie, because we had a two minute talk about Martin in the TARDIS and 3000 words later, here we are. The amazing wonderful brilliant sketch at the beginning of this story is her work, and you can see more of it [on her tumblr, artbylexie](http://artbylexie.tumblr.com/).

  


It is Martin Crieff's sixth birthday. 

He is given to understand, based on a picture book that one of the neighbor children lent him-- well, left with him, anyway, after using it to hit him over the head-- that birthdays are supposed to be magical. So far nothing magical has happened, but it hasn't been his birthday for very many hours yet, so maybe there's hope. After all, on Caitlin's birthday, she got to ride a pony, and on Simon's birthday, he got to ride a rollercoaster, and now it's his birthday, so surely something good will happen. Surely. 

He knows what he would pick, if his birthday turned out like in the picture book. In the book, a good wizard shows up on a little boy's birthday and takes him on an _adventure_ , and there are dinosaurs and giant frogs and a cake as big as a house. 

Martin doesn't want any of those things, though. 

All Martin wants in the world is to be an aeroplane, because all Martin really wants is to fly, but even at the young age of six, he recognizes that he is unlikely to sprout wings anytime soon. This is surely for the best; school is difficult enough without the added complication of feathers. 

So he waits for this birthday magic to happen. He doesn't really expect to suddenly find that he's an aeroplane, but maybe, just maybe, after Caitlin's pony and Simon's rollercoaster, today will be the day for _Martin's plane_ , so he waits. He waits and waits. For a whole hour, he waits in his room, in case they want to come and open the door quite suddenly and shout, "SURPRISE!" 

He's heard that this happens to other children, but it doesn't seem to be happening to him. After another hour in his room, he relocates to the bottom of the stairs by the front door, so he'll be easy to find. Simon thunders down the stairs with a football; Caitlin tromps up the stairs with a paper tiara on her head. His father swears loudly from his workroom. 

He makes himself some toast, which he eats with his eyes closed. He imagines that it's cake, and that he's eating it on a plane. It's not as good as the real thing, probably, and he's concentrating so hard on pretending to be flying that he accidentally bites his cheek instead of the toast, which hurts. A lot. 

The rest of his day is taken up with more waiting, endless waiting. Every time his father comes in he sits up a bit straighter, hopeful, and every time his father steps out again his shoulders slump a little lower. 

And then, just before bedtime, as he's standing at the sink in the bathroom, cleaning his teeth while wearing his very favorite aeroplane pajamas, his father appears in the doorway, one hand behind his back.

"Happy birthday," he says, somewhat gruffly. He hands Martin a small box wrapped in plain brown paper, and Martin hurries to rinse his mouth so he can eagerly rip open the package, which surely must contain, just absolutely has to be concealing, at the very least, a tiny toy aeroplane. 

It's a toy car. 

"Thanks," he mumbles dully, and his father reaches out awkwardly to pat his head. 

"Good night, Martin," he says, and shuffles away again, leaving Martin standing alone holding his present. He chucks it into the bin before he crawls into bed and tries, very hard, not to cry. 

That's it, then: birthdays aren't magical. Magic isn't even _real_. His tears are, though, he can feel them, hot on his face, and he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to pretend that it doesn't matter. 

He's barely even asleep when the whooshing noise from the garden wakes him. He looks at the clock; there are eleven whole minutes remaining in his birthday. He races downstairs, hope suddenly rekindled, but when he shoves open the door and stumbles outside, it's not a plane or a pilot that he sees, it's just a big blue box and a curious-looking man wearing a bowtie and the same kind of stuffy old jacket that old men wear. The big blue box is sitting on top of a rosebush. His mother will not be very pleased with that when she gets home from her shift at the hospital. 

"You can't put your box there," Martin says, and the man looks at him and grins, a bit wildly, which should probably be frightening, since he's a stranger and it's the middle of the night and he's parked a big blue box on the roses, but Martin finds, strangely, that he isn't afraid. 

"Quite right!" the man declares. "I'm dreadfully sorry, sometimes she just has a mind of her own." He pats the side of the box, and it sounds like the box _sighs_. "She isn't a box, though." 

"Yes," Martin says, frowning. "It is." 

"Well, I admit she _looks_ like a box," the man says. "But appearances can be deceiving."

Martin wrinkles his nose, considering this statement. "If it's not a box, then what is it?" 

"A time machine," the man says, beaming, and then he snaps his fingers and the box opens. Golden light spills out across the lawn, stopping just short of Martin's feet. "See?" 

Martin peers inside, just for a moment: he can see a railing and lots of levers and knobs and switches and light, so much light, and then he steps back, eyes wide, thinking briefly of the picture book and the last eleven minutes of his birthday. "Are you a wizard?" 

The man bobs up and down on his heels, hands hooked in his braces, and smiles. "On some planets. Sometimes on this one. Depends on the day. And the year." He pats the box again, fondly, and then turns back to Martin. "I'm the Doctor, by the way, probably should have said that earlier." 

"The Doctor? Doctor who?" 

The Doctor laughs, then, and the sound is warm, just like the light inside the box. "Just the Doctor, that's what they call me." 

"They?" 

"Everyone!" the Doctor says, flinging his arms wide. "And what do they call you?" 

"Martin," he replies. "Martin Crieff." 

"Martin Crieff," the Doctor repeats, nodding his head. "Very pleased to meet you, Martin Crieff." 

"It's my birthday," he says suddenly, not really knowing why. "I'm six." 

The Doctor looks delighted. "Your birthday! Oh, that is brilliant. Happy birthday, Martin Crieff! The happiest of birthdays. I hope it's been a good one." 

"Not really," Martin confesses. "I wanted to be an aeroplane, but I'm not, and Simon said it was a stupid thing to want to be." 

"Well, whoever this Simon fellow is, he's wrong," the Doctor says. "An aeroplane! It's brilliant, it's absolutely brilliant." 

"Really?" 

"Of course! You could zip across the world quick as you please, you could give your friends a lift whenever you wanted! Take it from me, that comes in handy if you're ever in a spot of trouble. Not that _you_ would be, of course, that's more my particular--" the Doctor stops, suddenly, and seems to notice the crushed rose bushes for the first time. "Er. Well. We can fix those."

"I don't think so," Martin says. "They look done for." 

The Doctor frowns for a moment, then raises one long finger in the air. "Aha! l've got it. Totally easy. No problem at all." He leans down, suddenly, puts his face up against one of the crushed flowers, and takes a good long sniff. Martin is fairly certain now that the Doctor is a bit mad, but this is the most fun he's had all day, so he stays where he is. The Doctor pops back up, then, seemingly satisfied. "These roses have been here for a year and seventeen days." 

Martin stares. "How do you know?" 

"I stopped to smell the roses," the Doctor says, grinning, and snaps his braces against his chest. "Now it's simple. We just pop back in time one year and sixteen days ago, borrow some roses, pop back, and Bob's your uncle. Well. He might not be. Do you have an uncle?" 

"Er, yes," Martin says. "His name isn't Bob. And you can't take those roses from last year, because they were stolen after mum planted-- oh!" 

The Doctor grins. "Another mystery solved!" 

"We can't _steal_ Mum's roses," Martin says. "Stealing is wrong." 

"We're hardly stealing them," the Doctor scoffs. "We're just moving them from one place to another. Moving things isn't wrong, is it?"

"Well," Martin says. "Maybe not. And what do you mean, 'we'?" 

"Aha!" the Doctor shouts. "Now we're getting somewhere. Well. Shortly we will be, I think, after you answer this very important question: Martin Crieff, have you ever wanted to take a trip in a time machine?" 

"No," Martin says, and the Doctor looks surprised. 

"Oh. Well. How about a spaceship?" 

"Not really," Martin says, shaking his head. 

The Doctor looks genuinely puzzled. "You've never wanted to fly in a spaceship?" 

"It _flies_?" Martin asks, thinking of the sky and the clouds and how wonderful it must feel to soar above buildings and trees and rivers and oceans. "Oh, please, Doctor, say that it does." 

"Of course it flies!" the Doctor cries, waving his hands around, fingers dancing in the air. "It flies anywhere you'd like, anywhere at all in time or space, you name it, Martin Crieff, Martin who wants to be an aeroplane, and we can absolutely fly there. What do you say?" 

"I say yes," Martin says immediately, completely disregarding everything his mother has ever told him about strangers or going places with strangers, just for the chance to _fly_. 

"Excellent!" The Doctor waves him toward the inside of the box, and Martin steps forward, gingerly at first, then more boldly as the warm light inside hits his face. Whatever he expects to see, it isn't what the inside of the box actually looks like. It's huge! There's so much light! And off the main console, corridors lead back into even more space. 

Maybe, just maybe, magic is real after all. 

He turns around to see the Doctor leaning casually against the door, his arms crossed, an expression on his face that's proudly smug, and Martin decides, then and there, that when he grows up, if he cannot be an aeroplane, he will be a pilot, and when he talks about his plane, that is exactly the look he will have. 

"Martin Crieff, meet the TARDIS," the Doctor says, waving his hand around. "Isn't she beautiful?" 

"Yes," Martin agrees. He looks over at the console and frowns. The levers do not look like anything he has ever seen in books about planes. "How do you fly, though?" 

"Extremely carefully," the Doctor says, but Martin gets the impression that he isn't being very serious, because his eyes are twinkling and his funny-looking face is even funnier. "It's all lever-pulling and coordinates-typing and off we go, wibbly-wobbly, through all of space and time." 

Something occurs to Martin, then, that possibly should have occurred before, but it's not every day that a strange man with a name like The Doctor turns up in the yard and claims to have a time machine. 

"How long will we be gone? Shall I leave a note?" 

"Martin, Martin, Martin," the Doctor says, walking around in circles on the console, fiddling with switches as he goes. "It's a time machine! I can have you back five minutes from now, if you like." 

"Oh," Martin says. He can feel his face warming; he really should have thought of that. 

The Doctor stops walking, then, and frowns thoughtfully at Martin, tapping his fingers on the console as he does. For a moment, Martin fears that the Doctor has changed his mind, but then the Doctor seems to come to some sort of conclusion, because he claps his hands together and smiles and says, "Tell you what. I don't usually, because well, usually it's just me, lately, and it'd be a bit silly to do this with just me, not that silly usually stops me, but. Since you're here and it's your birthday, today, Martin Crieff: you are the Captain of this ship, you are the Commander of this vessel."

"Really? Does that mean I get to give the orders?"

"Indeed it does, Captain Crieff, indeed it does." The Doctor stands briefly at attention and salutes. "You tell me where to go, sir, and off we'll fly. So. Where to, Captain?" 

Martin thinks for a long moment and frowns up at the Doctor. "Don't you have to do flight checks first?" 

The Doctor grins and shakes his finger in Martin's direction. "Ahhh," he says, dancing around the console, "right you are, Captain, right you are. Zigzag plotter, ready for zigzag plotting. Wibbly lever, ready for wibbly levering. Catsup, mustard, all ready for any spontaneous picnicking that might happen, don't laugh, Captain, there's precedent for that. It seems that we are, in fact, ready to fly, sir." 

Martin stands up as straight as he can and adjusts his pajama top, pretending it's a perfectly pressed Captain's jacket. "Okay, Doctor First Officer," he says. "Let's go get some rose bushes." 

He doesn't know how much time he spends with the Doctor, but however long it is, Martin thinks it is the absolute best time he has ever had. After they _move_ the rose bushes, very nearly getting caught by Martin's dad, they scramble back into the TARDIS and the Doctor-- First Officer Doctor, really-- requests permission to make a surprise landing, which Martin graciously grants, and when he pushes open the TARDIS door, it is 17 December, 1903. The Doctor introduces him to his friends, Wilbur and Orville, and Martin watches with wide eyes as they take to the skies. 

He has never wanted to do anything more in his whole life. 

"I've changed my mind," he tells the Doctor, when at last they have to go back to England. "I don't want to be an aeroplane. I want to be an _airline captain_." 

The Doctor tugs on his bow tie, beaming. "Earth's youngest airline captain! Excellent plan, Captain Crieff, excellent plan. If you start now, you can retire at twenty." 

"No," Martin laughs. "I want to be an airline captain when I grow up." 

The Doctor sighs. "Oh, don't grow up. You definitely don't want to do that." 

"Haven't you?" 

"I don't know," the Doctor says, and for a moment he seems to look far past Martin, even though there's nothing but the warm walls of the TARDIS behind them. "What do you think? Am I a grown-up?" 

Martin considers this, thinking of the rose bushes and the Doctor's constant insistence about how cool bowties are. "No," he says, but then he thinks of the Doctor's face when he talks about the TARDIS, and he adds, "but also yes." 

"A wise answer," the Doctor says, and then he leans down and offers Martin his hand. "Well done today, Captain Crieff. You were the best Captain the old girl's had in quite some time." 

"I wasn't, wasn't I?" Martin says. "I was the best." 

"Absolutely," the Doctor says. He tosses off another salute. "Happy birthday, Martin Crieff, the boy who waited to fly. I don't know if I'll be seeing you again, but it was an honor to travel under your command." 

The Doctor steps back into the warm light of the TARDIS, gives him one last little wave, and shuts the door. Martin crawls into bed and watches the TARDIS vanish away-- the Doctor had landed them in his bedroom this time, to spare any more "floral mishaps," as he called them. He feels like he should be sad, watching the Doctor go away, and all his hopes for more adventures, but he isn't. He can finally knows what he will do with his life. He will be the best airline captain ever, just like he was the best TARDIS captain, and who knows? Maybe some day he will even fly the Doctor somewhere. 

A few moments later, his bedroom door creaks open, and his mother steps inside. He pretends to be sleeping while she tucks the covers up around his shoulders and bends to kiss his forehead. 

"Happy birthday, dear Martin," she whispers, and leaves a box on his nightstand before tiptoeing quietly from the room. As soon as the door clicks shut, he throws off the covers and grabs for the box. Inside is a model aeroplane and a Captain's hat, which he immediately plops onto his head. 

"So you are awake," his mother says, and he looks up, startled, to see her peeking in. "I hope you like it. The funny man at the shop seemed to think that you would. He was a bit odd. Had a bow tie. You don't see those much these days." 

Martin smiles at his mother and thinks of the Doctor and his bowtie and his time machine. "This was the best birthday," he says.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: It's important to note that I play fast and loose with canon on a good day. 
> 
> Disclaimers: This isn't for profit, just for fun. All characters & situations belong to Russell T. Davies, Stephen Moffat, John Finnemore, BBC, and their various subsidiaries. Title from a song by James Taylor, which I also had nothing to do with.


End file.
